moonfleur

 

That’s all he remembers. Falling. He had taken a sip of that strange green tea the fortune teller had asked him to drink and the next thing he knew he was falling. Down and down. First through darkness, and then through fog and now, now here he is falling through air from a sky that is a bit too green for his liking. 

 

He isn’t scared though, for some strange reason. He should be, he’s falling so fast he should have hit the ground yesterday but… he’s still falling. The birds that were below him are now above him so at least he’s moving. Or he thinks he is. He looks out, tries to ignore the swooping of his belly when he realises just how high up he is, and sees green. Everything is green. The sky is a pale, kind of off-white green, the ground below him is nothing but green trees — of varying shades of green —  as far as his eyes can see and he finds that he can see very far from this height.

 

Then he is on the ground.

 

He doesn’t remember landing, doesn’t even remember coming anywhere close to the ground but here he is, half covered in undergrowth that is taller than him. He brushes himself off and takes stock of his surroundings, which doesn’t help much seeing as he’s landed in the middle of a clearing — an oasis of sorts in this sea of trees.

 

 

The leaves of the trees rustle overhead but there is no wind and he can’t shake off the feeling that somehow they are talking, the rustling sounding like whispers if he tries not to listen hard enough. He feels it then, tiny little pin pricks against the back of his neck, the feeling of eyes tracking his every movement. The hair on his arms rises in response and he swivels around, expecting to catch… something. He doesn’t know what but the feeling of being watched remains. 

 

Slowly, carefully, as if he’s afraid of awakening a sleeping monster he takes a step and finds himself shooting backwards and slamming into an old wooden chair. It creaks upon impact and he nearly falls out of it. The forest is gone. Instead, he finds himself in a small wooden cottage, an almost identical replica of the fortune teller’s shop except everything is tinged in green — green bottles, deep green vines, the water dripping from the sink is green, even the wood seems to be some kind of ghastly green brown.

 

“Hello.” 

 

The voice startles him and he looks up to find himself face to face with the fortune teller or… not really the fortune teller. He looks like him, but also not entirely. It is the still the same deep, warm eyes, the same smile, the same disgustingly broad shoulders but his eyes are a deep emerald where they had once been brown and his skin is a pale green to match the rest of whatever world he’s just fallen into.

 

“Where am I?” He asks, soft, quiet, and yet, surprisingly unafraid.

 

The man smiles, sweet and gentle, like the kiss of a warm summer’s sun across his face and something settles in him, clicks into place like twin cogs finally meshing together after a century out of place. 

 

“Home.”